Let Her Go
by alohamora080
Summary: You somehow manage to slip your daughter's slender hand into that of another man. You let her go, at last, because you know she'll be happy. And, in the end, that's all you've ever cared about.


31 July 2000

You wake up early that morning. Earlier than everyone else. Molly is still curled tightly into the comforter, on your right, and you know she won't be awake for another hour at least. In the back of your mind, you know that you won't be able to get any more sleep. Not today.

For a brief moment, you consider waking Molly up, just to share what's on your mind. But you decide against it almost immediately. You know Molly doesn't need any other concerns plaguing her mind…not on a big day like this.

Sighing heavily, you slowly drag yourself out of your undeniably comfortable bed, regretfully leaving behind the warmth of the blankets. Careful not to make any unnecessary creaks and thuds, you tiptoe across the threshold, and quietly slip out the door, pausing at the frame, as you always do, to glance back once more at Molly. The smallest of smiles graces your lips, just as it always does when you look at your wife. She looks so peaceful, lying there, huddled beneath the blankets. She looks so tranquil, her face less lined. But you know it's only temporary. In just a few hours, she'll be right back on her feet, bustling around the house and preparing for the imperative event that's to take place in your house today.

You push that to the back of your mind. You can't think about that now.

The corridors are dark and the hushed stillness of the early morning lingers in the air. You drink it all in blissfully. It's not everyday you are able to enjoy such serenity in your house. You squint out the window. It can't be much later than five o'clock, you discern. For the sun has yet to rise.

As you saunter unsteadily down the staircase, an impromptu, uneasy feeling causes your chest to tighten. It is not a new feeling. The same feeling has been occurring to you repeatedly for almost eight months. And each time, it's for the same reason.

Your daughter is getting married today.

You know you should feel delighted…excited, even. Yet, for some unknown reason, you simply cannot bring yourself to. She's is your little girl, the apple of your eye. The same girl you held lovingly in your arms, just eighteen years ago. And deep down, you know that you just can't bring yourself to let that go.

You yawn widely as you approach the foot of the staircase. Suddenly, you frown. A lamp has been lit downstairs. Your fingers automatically close over your wand. But as you pad silently onto the last step and glance covertly into the sitting room, you release the breath which you didn't even know you were holding. A slender girl, with a long mane of red hair, is sitting at the dining table. Her hands are closed over a cup of tea, and her eyes are unfocused; she's staring vacantly at the blank stretch of wall in front of her.

She doesn't notice you until your sitting right in front of her. She jumps wildly in her seat. But as soon as her eyes meet yours, she smiles.

"'Morning, Daddy."

"Hello, sweetheart."

"What are you doing down here so early?" she asks.

Your arch an eyebrow. "I could ask you the same thing."

"But, see, I asked you first," she smirks complacently, and you know you've lost. But then again, you always lose, when it comes to her.

"I couldn't sleep," you explain honestly.

"Oh." But she's not listening anymore. Her eyes are once again glazed over, and her gaze flickers across the room, until it lies on her own fingers. On her left hand, she is wearing a small golden band, set with one shimmering diamond. She eyes it fondly for a moment before looking back up at you.

And she discloses, "I'm getting married today."

It's as though someone has reached in and physically pulled out your heart, smashing it into bits and pieces in front of you. There is a large pit in the middle of your stomach now, and suddenly, you find yourself suppressing the urge to burst into tears.

But you don't. You can't let your daughter see you like that.

So, instead, you answer simply, "I know. Nervous, are you?"

"Not terribly," she shrugs, and you immediately know she isn't lying. Your daughter has never been scared of anything. Her own wedding date couldn't intimidate her as such.

"Good." You smile with as much affection as you can muster, and pat her arm softly. "Don't be. Just think…five hours from now, you'll be Mrs. Ginevra Potter." The words feel sharp in your throat, and you have to strongly refrain from wincing as you hear yourself utter them.

Fortunately, Ginny doesn't notice this. A grin is playing at her lips, and her features have lit up. And suddenly, even you can't help but grin at the ecstatic look on her face.

"I always knew I'd marry him, Daddy," she murmurs.

You bravely ignore the voices screaming in your head, telling you to cancel the wedding. Call it off! Call it off! they shriek. She's _your_ little girl.

"I'm happy for you, sweetheart."

* * *

"Victoire—Victoire, please give Nana her wand back, ma chérie!"

"Somebody, get the door! Merlin's beard, who could possibly calling at a time like this?"

"Oh, Andromeda! It's Teddy—he's gotten hold of another gnome. Ron! George! I told you to de-gnome the garden yesterday!"

It's only less than three hours later, and your house is already in shambles. People are running in every plausible direction, and your wife is bellowing orders at the top of her lungs. You cringe slightly as she rounds on you, expression blazing.

For a moment, she merely stares at you. She doesn't say anything, but you can see her expression soften. She surveys you sympathetically. Perhaps she has guessed what is bothering you today. If she has, she doesn't say so. Instead, she clumsily pats your cheek, and strolls away.

You only have a few moments' respite to marvel at your wife's intuition before you are surrounded by your sons, all of whom are clapping you soundly on the back and exclaiming, "Father-of-the-bride, eh? How's it feel, Dad?"

You force a smile and mutter a few positive remarks, here and there. They don't notice the forcefulness of your tone, for their smirks increase in length as you describe just how happy you are that your daughter is going to marry Harry Potter. Genuinely, you are happy that it's _him_ she's marrying. You love the boy dearly, as though he were your own, and you'd rather it be him than someone else.

As if on cue, Harry himself enters the expanse, a wide grin plastered to his face. His appearance is greeted by a profusion of whoops and whistles from your sons, and they immediately engulf him in a myriad of tight embraces. You are glad for the distraction, and you covertly slip out of the room, not aware that someone's eyes have followed your departure.

Just as you are about to climb the staircase, you hear someone shout your name, "Mr. Weasley!" You swivel around and come face-to-face with a pair of startlingly green eyes.

"Harry, my boy, what is it?"

He surveys you unblinkingly, and you feel distinctly uncomfortable under his unwavering gaze. At long last, he sighs. "I—I can't help but get the feeling that you're not very happy with the idea of me marrying Ginny."

You are genuinely surprised, but a wry smile tugs at the corners of your lips. Harry has always been unfailingly good at discerning your feelings. Anyone's feelings, for that matter. "Harry, I assure you, I'm very happy that you're marrying my daughter today…" you hesitate slightly, and continue, "but, I can't deny that I'm finding it a tad difficult letting her go."

"I promise you, Mr. Weasley, she's in good hands." He sounds so earnest that you find yourself sympathizing with him.

"I know, Harry," you reassure him, clapping his shoulder. "And I couldn't possibly be happier that my daughter's chosen you as her husband. Merlin knows you're the probably the best thing that's ever happened to her. It's just…well…I'm her father…she's my only daughter…it's only natural that I feel this way, isn't it?"

Harry looks still uncertain.

You chuckle softly. "One day, when you have a little girl of your own, you'll know what I mean."

* * *

"Arthur!"

You start and stare around. The golden satin walls of the wedding marquee greet you, and a large number of guests are already seated in their respective allocations. There is a slightly irritated buzz, as they all swivel around in their seats, evidently searching for the bride. Harry's unruly groom's party—Ron, George, and Neville—is busy cracking jokes to keep the audience occupied. Suddenly, Molly's bright brown eyes loom above your face, and she gives you a meaningful look. "Arthur, it's time! Go get Ginny! Let's start the wedding!"

You immediately jump to your feet and set off towards the house, wondering how you could've possibly dozed off for this long. Panting slightly, you fling open the Burrow's front door. You scramble up the steps, two at a time, and pause fleetingly outside Ginny's room to catch your breath. Holding up your hand, you rap sharply on the wooden door.

"Ginny!" you call desperately. "Ginny, it's time! We're already late!"

The door swings open and Hermione appears, closely followed by Luna. Both bear robes of pale yellow satin, and Luna, you notice, has a dazzling sunflower tucked behind her ear. Both smile at you. And, as they make their way down the stairs, Hermione jerks her head in the direction of Ginny's door, gesturing for you to go inside.

"Ginny, sweetheart?"

Your breath catches in my throat as your daughter revolves slowly around to face you. Her long, red hair has been permed to perfection by a patient Fleur, and now hangs freely down her back in soft, natural curls. She wears a fitted, simple, white bodice, embellished sparingly with frills, ruffles, and small white roses. Her long skirt flows and flutters slightly as she walks towards you.

But it's not this, nor the flawlessness of her simple, but elegant makeup that leaves you utterly speechless. It's how…_grown up_…she looks that catches you completely by surprise. And suddenly, it hits you—she's not a child anymore. She's eighteen years old, and ready to make a name for herself. And she's getting married in just a few minutes.

"How do I look?" she inquires, a nervous smile surfacing on her fair features.

"Stunning," you assure her, and she looks satisfied. You hold out your hand, furiously working to suppress the tears welling up in your eyes, and she takes it, leaning up to peck your cheek.

"Ready?" you whisper hoarsely, not trusting yourself to speak normally

She nods, squeezing your hand, as you lead her carefully down the staircase, and towards the front door. Molly is waiting vigilantly for the two of you outside the entrance to the marquee. Upon spotting you, she rushes forward, and grabs you into a tight hug.

"Thank Merlin—I was getting worried you'd had a breakdown or something," she mutters in your ear.

She turns to Ginny before you can retaliate, and you can see the pride virtually radiating from her face. "You look absolutely gorgeous, Ginny, dear," she gushes. "Harry's such a lucky man."

Molly departs in the direction of the marquee, and you glance at your daughter, one last time. She looks eager, bordering impatient, to go inside. You can't blame her. After all, she's been waiting for this moment since she was five.

"I know you want to run in there, Ginny," you address your daughter in an undertone, as you escort her towards the marquee. "I know you'll want to sprint down the aisle as fast as you can…but don't. Take a moment to enjoy this—your—your last official day as a—Weasley—" your voice cracks slightly, and you take a deep, shuddering breath.

Ginny turns to you, looking stunned. "Is that what's been bothering you?" She sighs. "Daddy, you know I'll always be your daughter, right?"

Perhaps _this_ is what finally gives you the strength to lead your daughter down the aisle of entranced guests, towards an equally entranced Harry. Perhaps _this_ is what assures you, at long last, that this day is not the end, but only the beginning. You are not completely sure, but, either way, you somehow manage to slip your daughter's slender hand into that of another man. You let her go, at last, because you know she'll be happy.

And, in the end, that's all you've ever cared about.

* * *

Hello, darlings! Here's another one-shot for you. This is the first time I've written anything in the second person, and I'm not sure whether I've pulled it off, so bear with me in the case that there are any errors.

This story was prompted by my sudden curiosity towards what Arthur must've felt, giving his daughter to Harry. I mean, he had six sons, but only one daughter, and that's bound to make a difference, right?

Yours sincerely,  
Alohamora


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